


come as you are-;

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Genderswap, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Mute!Jaskier, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier wants Geralt, more than he's ever wanted anyone. So a mage offers him a choice that he soon regrets.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 610





	come as you are-;

**Author's Note:**

> this was requested on tumblr and i honestly had more fun than i expected writing it <3  
> follow me on twitter @ queermight or tumblr @ korrmin

After Geralt yelled at him on the mountain, Jaskier left. He left without looking back, he left with a stinging in his eyes, a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, a tremble in his bottom lip. He walked, silent, to the closest town and got a room at a cheap inn.

The innkeeper was a sweet old lady, who brought him food after he’d settled in.

“You seem upset,” she said, not unkindly as he took a bite of bread, only slightly stale.

Jaskier chewed slowly, unsure how to answer.

“Was it a woman?” she asked, a knowing glint in her eye as she sat on the edge of the bed, hands curled together in her lap.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Not exactly,” he answered, thinking briefly of white hair and yellow eyes and scarred skin.

“A man?” she asked, and Jaskier looked up a little too quickly.

The Continent wasn’t entirely unforgiving of that kind of stuff, but quite a few of the kings were disapproving and Jaskier knew better than to be open about his interest in both women and men.

The lady smiled when he didn’t answer. “I don’t mind, dearie,” she assured him and for some reason he believed her.

Frowning, he broke the rest of the bread in half and offered her a piece. She smiled sweetly and took it.

“Not just a man,” he answered finally, quiet. “But a Witcher.”

“Oh my,” she replied around a mouthful of bread. “There’s quite a story there, I’m assuming,” she said.

Jaskier smiled briefly. “There is,” he confirmed, thinking of the first time he’d met Geralt. No, the first time he _saw_ Geralt, tucked away in a corner of a tavern, all on his own.

“Well,” the lady said with a smile, “I have all night.”

Jaskier nodded, settling down. He told her everything, from the moment he’d met Geralt to the hunt for the dragon and how Geralt had pushed him away. He realized in that moment he’d never told anyone else, in detail, about his relationship with Geralt.

When he was finished, she let out a deep sigh. “Well, that is, indeed, a story.”

Jaskier smiled tightly. “And not an entirely happy one,” he added ruefully, hands curling into fists in his lap.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” the lady started, looking at him with that knowing glint in her eye again. “You have feelings for this Witcher, don’t you?”

Jaskier paused, surprised by the question. No one had asked him that before, not even after he wrote and started singing _Her Sweet Kiss_ , which was… well, perhaps a ballad about Geralt and Yennefer, but him too.

“I do,” he whispered, a quiet admission, and his eyes stung again.

The lady reached over and took his hand, squeezing. “You should tell him.”

“I can’t,” he replied quickly, pulling his hand back. He thought of Yennefer and smiled sadly. “He has a lover.” Perhaps not always the best or most consistent one, but somehow they always found their way back to each other.

The lady nodded. “But how do you know she’s the one for him?” she asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Many folks have lovers, but that doesn’t mean they have the right one.”

Jaskier blinked. “What do you mean?”

“This Witcher… Geralt, right?” Jaskier nodded, and she continued: “From what you told me, he sounds like a lonely fellow.”

Jaskier looked away. “He can blame himself for that,” he said harshly.

“Oh, I’m not arguing that he’s flawed, dearie,” the lady continued with a hint of amusement, “but from what it sounds like, Yennefer was the first person he met who made a move on him. Maybe that’s what he needed.”

Jaskier frowned, staring down at the crumbs in his lap. He remembered vividly: _And yet here we are._ “It doesn’t matter,” he said eventually. “Even if she wasn’t in the picture, I wouldn’t have a chance.”

“And why is that?” the lady asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Jaskier looked up at her. “I don’t think he has an interest in…” He snorted, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Men?” she finished knowingly, and he shrugged weakly. “Well, sweetie, not to get any wild ideas in your mind, but you live in a _world of magic._ ”

They heard a commotion down the hall and she sighed heavily, standing up. “I think I’m needed,” she said. “Get some rest, darling,” she said, smiling lightly. “I think you need it.”

Jaskier blinked, still absorbing her words. “Wait, what do you mean - ”

The commotion grew louder and she waved him off, slipping from the room.

Jaskier packed up the next morning and left the inn. “Good luck,” the innkeeper called as he left, and he smiled, waving goodbye as the door closed in his face.

Sighing, he adjusted his bag and turned away, leaving the town.

He walked for a while but the sun went down before he reached the next room. So, he did what he used to do when he traveled with Geralt: settled down and made camp in the woods.

Jaskier sat around the fire, warming his hands and thinking of the innkeeper’s words:

_You live in a world of magic._

She was right, of course, but what did that have to do with his feelings for Geralt?

Pursing his lips, he pulled his knees up to his chest and crossed his arms over them, staring into the fire. He was hungry, but frankly Geralt had done most of the hunting. Jaskier didn’t even have any good weapons, just a couple daggers he kept on his person in case of emergencies.

He assumed daggers weren’t the best for hunting.

Sighing, he laid down on the grass and dozed off. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was Geralt, standing in front of him, arms open, welcoming him back with warm eyes.

Jaskier cried in his sleep like a child.

The next morning, he sat up, dried, crusty tears on his cheeks. Frowning, he stood up and grabbed his things and went searching for a stream or river. He found one, tucked away in the woods, and stripped.

The water was chilly, but he didn’t mind. He sunk down in the water and closed his eyes.

_You live in a world of magic._

Jaskier frowned and reached up, burying his face in his hands. He tried to think of something else–anything else–but the innkeeper’s words would not leave his brain, repeating over and over like a mantra.

Huffing, he pulled his hands away from his face and glared at a fish circling him in the water. _Well_ , he thought, _that could work._

Jaskier grabbed one of his daggers from his bag and went fishing.

A couple hours later, he was sitting back around a fire, eating fish on a stick. Jaskier took small bites, savoring it, and mulling over the innkeeper’s words.

He left with no answers, throwing his bag over his shoulder and stalking back to the road. He walked for a couple hours and reached the next town.

Jaskier played in a tavern for coins, just enough to get by. He stayed at the local inn for a few days, debating if he should just go back and ask the innkeeper what she meant–why her words wouldn’t leave his head. Jaskier went to sleep one night, dreamed of the innkeeper, and he woke up with the answer.

“No way,” he muttered to the empty room.

Jaskier packed up his things and traveled back to the other town. When he arrived, he walked to the inn, a deep frown on his face.

He opened the door and the innkeeper smiled brightly.

“I was wondering if you’d come back,” she said with a wink. “I was getting worried.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes and closed the door. “You’re not human,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “And you’ve been messing with my head, haven’t you?”

The innkeeper smiled, standing up and walking closer. “I have no interest in forcing you to do anything,” she said, and she sounded sincere but Jaskier knew better than to trust mages. “I just want to help you.”

He stared at her. “By what–turning me into a woman?” He remembered his dream, seeing himself as a woman. Geralt’s hands all over him–her, fuck. He shook his head. “That’s–”

“Magic,” she finished quickly. “That’s all it is. You would still be your self.”

Jaskier laughed sharply. “You’re out of your mind,” he said, taking a step back. “I’ve never even _heard_ of something like this.”

She hmmed, folding her hands together in front of her. “It’s forbidden magic,” she admitted, “but I am more than capable, I swear on my life.”

Jaskier swallowed, staring at her, thinking of Geralt and his hands. His stupid fucking hands, rough with scars and callouses. He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. “I–I thought mages were supposed to be forever young and–and beautiful,” he said.

“Please,” she replied and when he opened his eyes she was even closer. “Let me help you, Jaskier,” she said, taking his hands. “You want the Witcher, do you not?”

Jaskier almost sobbed, biting the inside of his cheek. “But–”

“Shh,” she shushed him, squeezing his hands. “You will have a chance like this, that’s all that matters.”

Jaskier thought of Yennefer–her slim body with curves in all the right places, her long, dark curls, her striking eyes and full lips. He let out a sob and the innkeeper–the mage–reached up, cupping the side of his face.

“Wh–what’s the catch?” he asked quietly. “I know mages never play fair.”

She smiled and slowly she morphed in front of his eyes–into the image of a young woman with a pretty face and a sweet smile.

“Oh,” he almost laughed. “Th–that makes sense.”

“All I want in exchange for me helping you,” she started slowly, placing a hand over his heart, “is your passion.”

Jaskier blinked, once. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Wh–what’s the point of doing all this if you steal away my passion?”

“No, darling,” she purred, stroking his arm. “Not all of your passion, just…” She reached up and slowly ran a finger down the length of his neck, pale and exposed. “Your voice.”

Jaskier laughed, taking a step back and hitting his back against the door. He frowned. “No,” he said firmly. “You know I’m a bard, right? How could I ever–”

“What do you want more?” she interrupted loudly, fire in her eyes. “The _Witcher_ or your voice?”

Jaskier stared at her, his heart beating fast. He wondered if she could hear it.

“Come on, little bard,” she said, stepping closer. “Give me an answer.”

He closed his eyes and thought of Geralt. The feeling of his hair. The way he smiled, for the briefest of seconds, whenever he thought something was funny. The way he’d always jumped in front of Jaskier whenever a monster aimed for him. How he’d searched, desperately, for Yennefer after the Djinn accident.

“I need an answer,” she said, interrupting his thoughts–no, his _memories_.

Jaskier opened his eyes and barely realized he was crying until the mage reached up and thumbed a few away, a smirk on her face.

“Oh, darling,” she breathed. “You don’t have to tell me. I can see your answer all over your face.”

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat. He tried to form words, but he couldn’t. Ironic, really. He closed his eyes and nodded, silent.

“Wonderful,” she said. She placed her hand back over Jaskier’s heart. “This won’t hurt a bit,” she assured him right before he saw black.

Jaskier sat up, gasping for air, and looked around. He was undoubtedly no longer at the inn, but deep in the woods.

_That was a terrible dream,_ he thought, _nothing else._

He slowly stood up on shaky legs and looked around again. There was no sign of the innkeeper– _mage_ , he corrected. Frowning, he glanced around and found his bag on the ground near his feet.

His feet, which… pointedly look very different.

Jaskier blinked, once, and crouched down, peering at his feet. “–” he opened his mouth, but nothing came out, just empty air. Jaskier reached up and touched his throat.

_No, no_ , he thought as he scrambled back to his feet and ran. He didn’t stop until he found a stream, rushing over and kneeling.

Jaskier took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself, before he opened them and leaned over, peering into the water. His reflection stared back at him.

He still looked like himself, kind of, he had the same brown hair, at least, and bright blue eyes. His skin was still the same shade and if he squinted he could see the same few freckles on his neck.

But that was where the similarities ended. His hair was long and tangled, reaching his shoulders, and everything else, the curve of his lips, the slant of his eyes, was… _softer_.

Jaskier looked down and sure enough he had curves in other places, too.

He fell back on his ass. _Shit, it worked–it really fucking worked._

Jaskier walked to the nearest town and realized, with a start, that he was miles away from where he’d been. He sat in a tavern and debated what to do, ordering beer after beer, which was not easy with no voice, thank you very much.

He was no idiot; he noticed the way men were staring at him. He pointedly ignored them. He wasn’t interested in them. He was interested in Geralt.

Burying his face in his hands, he sat there for what was probably hours.

“Hey,” a woman’s voice, soft and sweet.

Jaskier looked up, frowning at her. She wasn’t the mage, at least, just a tiny woman with a mousy face and wild red hair.

He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment and she giggled softly.

“Um, there’s a guy over there,” she said, pointing. He didn’t look. “He’s been staring at you for, like, an hour–since he came in, at least.”

Jaskier was not interested. He hoped he communicated that with his face.

“I know, I know,” she said. “But, um… see the interesting thing is…” Her eyes flickered around before focusing back on him. “I think he’s a Witcher,” she said in a whisper.

Jaskier stiffened. The woman must’ve noticed because she reached across the table and placed a gentle hand on his arm, a worried look in her eyes.

“Do you know him?” she asked, searching his face. “I can help you–”

Jaskier stood up suddenly, knocking his chair back, and turned around. There was no way it was Geralt–no way, right?–but Witchers weren’t common. He looked around the tavern, searching, before his eyes landed on Geralt, alone in a corner.

His stomach lurched. _Just like the first time,_ his brain echoed.

_But this time you have a chance_ , the mage’s voice echoed back.

“Hey,” the woman said, standing up. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier ignored her as he grabbed his bag and slowly walked over to Geralt. Suddenly the tavern was quiet, still–all Jaskier could see or hear was the Witcher, brooding all by himself. He wasn’t looking at him. He wondered if the woman had been telling the truth: had Geralt been watching him? Had he looked down when Jaskier had turned around, embarrassed to be caught?

Geralt looked up only when he stopped at his table, clutching his bag.

“I’m here to drink alone,” he said.

Jaskier could’ve cried; he’d missed Geralt so much without even knowing it.

“But,” Geralt continued when Jaskier didn’t say anything, “I’m assuming you’re going to sit, anyway.”

Jaskier smiled, a warmth in his chest, and sat across from him, placing his bag on the floor near his feet. He looked over at Geralt’s bag–at his swords. He smiled wider.

“Like ‘em?” he asked gruffly, and Jaskier startled, looking at his face. Geralt was smirking.

Jaskier nodded quickly.

Geralt sipped his beer, silent after that. Jaskier wanted to say something–anything, but he couldn’t. That was the point. He pursed his lips, watching as Geralt reached in his bag.

He pulled out a bag of coins and Jaskier knew he was running out of time.

He had to do _something_. Before Geralt left and walked out of his life again.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet just as Geralt stood up. Geralt peered at him, mostly just curious, which was–an improvement, okay? There was nothing like annoyance in his eyes, but there was also no fondness.

He opened his mouth before remembering he had no words.

_Fuck it_ , he thought, and lunged at Geralt, slamming their lips together. Geralt stumbled a few steps but righted himself soon after, placing a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier pulled back. Geralt stared down at him with an odd look in his eyes.

“You–you remind me of someone,” he said, and Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat.

He wanted to ask, so badly: _who?_

“Hmm,” Geralt said, still staring at him, searching his face. He smiled finally, just the barest hint of teeth. “I have a room at the local inn,” he said and Jaskier saw something, new, in his eyes. Arousal, lust. “Want to accompany me?”

He gulped, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and nodded.

Jaskier followed Geralt to the inn and down the hall to his room. Geralt opened the door and stepped out of the way, letting Jaskier in. Jaskier stood in the middle of the room, looking around.

“Are you here to examine my room or–?” Geralt asked with a hint of amusement.

Jaskier startled and smiled at him, a little tight around the edges.

Stepping forward, closer, Geralt placed his hands on Jaskier’s hips, squeezing. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He felt warm all over. Geralt leaned down and kissed him, licking into his mouth without a second thought.

Jaskier groaned–because apparently he could still do that, at least, as Geralt pushed him back, the back of his knees hitting the end of the bed. He fell back without fighting it, landing on the bed with a _hmph_.

Geralt pushed him onto his back and crawled over him, kissing him again.

It was everything he’d ever wanted, but–

Jaskier leaned up, resting on his elbows, watching as Geralt slowly bunched his shirt up, exposing the pale, smooth skin of his stomach and then finally the curve of his breasts.

He suddenly felt sick, cold all over.

Jaskier pushed Geralt off with a foot and the Witcher stumbled back, catching himself. He didn’t look upset, just confused, watching him with dark eyes.

Jaskier’s heart was like a hammer in his chest, beating too fast, too hard. He climbed off the bed and adjusted his shirt.

They stared at each other, silent, until Jaskier stormed out of the room.

Jaskier didn’t have money for a room and frankly he didn’t want one–not in the same inn as Geralt. He stormed out of the inn and paused, taking in the sight of the town, quiet and still at night.

His stomach lurched painfully and he turned away, disappearing into the woods.

Jaskier slept in the woods for days. That wasn’t unusual, really, he’d slept in the woods for longer than that during his travels with Geralt. But never so long by himself, curling up in the cold, wet grass and shivering as he slowly fell asleep.

He survived solely on fish because he still wasn’t a hunter.

At least Geralt had taught him how to start fires early on during their travels.

Jaskier bathed in streams and pointedly never looked at his reflection again. He played his lute nightly, but it wasn’t the same, not without his voice. He was thinking of traveling back to the town he’d met the innkeeper, maybe ask her if she’d undo the spell.

Somehow, though, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

Perhaps if he begged, though…

That’s when he heard it: the crunch of twigs, too close for comfort. Jaskier placed his lute aside carefully and stood up, digging his daggers out of his bag and holding them, tight, in his hands.

Jaskier listened, silent, until he heard it again and swung around just in time to be tackled by a burly man.

He fell back, the man on top of him, hands wrapping his throat.

Jaskier gasped, turning the dagger around in his hand and stabbing the man–a stranger, he realized–in the side. The man grunted in pain but Jaskier realized then he wasn’t alone; a couple other men stepped out of the shadows, rushing to his aid.

“Hey, are you okay?” one of the men asked their partner, hauling him off Jaskier.

Jaskier sat up, hoping to run, but the third man put his foot on his stomach, holding him down with his full weight. He closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek and tasting copper.

He prepared for death, pain, whatever these evil men wanted from him.

None of those things happened. Jaskier heard grunts of pain, felt something wet splatter across his cheeks. The pressure on his stomach was removed swiftly and he took a shaky breath, filling his lungs with air again.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked, and he knew that voice– _adored_ that voice.

Jaskier opened his eyes slowly. Geralt was crouching on the ground beside him. He swallowed thickly and sat up with Geralt’s help, a steady hand on his back. He saw the bodies of the men scattered around them.

Reaching up, he wiped a hand across his face. When he pulled his hand back, he noticed it was blood staining his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” Geralt repeated gruffly.

Jaskier looked at him and nodded slowly. He nodded back, looking vaguely relieved as he stood up and offered him a hand. Jaskier stared at his hand. He wanted to take it.

He didn’t. He stood up on shaky legs.

“Um–” Geralt sounded uncertain, almost nervous, and Jaskier looked up, pursing his lips. “Did I do something the other night?” he asked. “To make you feel uncomfortable?”

Jaskier laughed, sudden and sharp and, oh–he realized he could still do that, too. He shook his head and took a step back. His heel caught on something sharp and he winced, looking down.

His own fucking dagger.

“Here,” Geralt said, rough, touching his arm. Jaskier pulled back, glaring at him, but Geralt was unwavering. “I have a salve in my bag; it’ll stop that–” he nodded at his foot “–from getting infected.”

Jaskier might’ve been angry at his life right now, angry at himself, but he didn’t particularly want to die from a stupid cut on his foot, especially from his own fucking dagger.

He nodded curtly and Geralt smiled for the briefest of seconds, turning away.

“Follow me,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier followed Geralt to his campsite; it was the same as always and a few feet away was Roach, tied to a tree. Geralt nodded at a tree and Jaskier limped over, sitting down.

He watched, silent, as Geralt dug around in his bag and pulled out a small vial.

He walked back over and crouched in front of him. “It’ll sting,” he said, “but only for a second. Here, lift your foot.”

Jaskier nodded and lifted his foot, placing it on one of Geralt’s thighs. He opened the vial and scooped some of the ointment out with his fingers, smearing it over the cut.

He winced briefly before the pain subsided and all he felt was relief.

Geralt gently moved his foot off his thigh and sat beside him, quiet and brooding. Just like he’d been when Jaskier first met him. He smiled, just a hint, looking away.

“I never did get your name,” Geralt said, breaking the silence.

Jaskier just shrugged. It wasn’t like he could answer even if he conjured up a fake name, anyway.

Geralt nodded, snorting. “Right, well, I can’t say I’m usually surrounded by people quieter than me,” he said with mild amusement, eyeing Jaskier curiously.

His skin prickled and he closed his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked after a moment.

Jaskier saw no point in lying–most of the Continent knew who was Geralt thanks to his own songs. He nodded, eyes never opening.

“Hmm,” was his reply, quiet and thoughtful. “I’ll stay with you until morning,” he said. “To make sure you’re safe.”

Jaskier nodded again, not really listening. He needed to get out of here–he couldn’t be around Geralt, not like this. He thought if he was what Geralt so obviously wanted, he could pretend to be someone else. It was a small price to pay, he thought.

But this wasn’t him. He wasn’t Jaskier without his voice. He loved Geralt so, so much, but he couldn’t give up his own happiness for him. He couldn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t, even for the great White Wolf, the powerful Witcher.

Jaskier sat there, silent, as Geralt went off and caught them something for dinner. He roasted the deer over a fire and offered half to Jaskier, who silently but graciously accepted.

He took small bites, chewing slowly, watching Geralt.

Afterwards, Geralt stomped out the fire with his foot and placed his blanket–the same one as always–on the ground. “Are you cold?” he asked, and Jaskier pressed his lips together, tight, not answering.

Geralt shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, laying down.

Jaskier frowned, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. It was cold, yes, but he was not cuddling with Geralt, not in this body. He closed his eyes and slowly dozed off.

Jaskier was the first up–thanks the God. He stood up and tested his foot. He could walk if he ignored the pain. Walking over, he snatched the vial out of Geralt’s bag and stuffed it in his own bag.

He paused, standing over Geralt, wondering if he could hear him–feel him–even in his sleep.

Smiling sadly, he crouched down. _I’ll be back as soon as I fix things, Geralt, I swear._ He didn’t let himself wonder if Geralt would even want him back once he was in his own body again.

Standing up, he wiped his eyes, wet with tears, and turned away.

Jaskier traveled back to the town where he’d met the mage. It was a long travel and he was exhausted by the time he reached the outskirts of town. He walked to the inn, ignoring the odd looks from townsfolk. He was a sight to behold, no doubt, shoeless and hair a wild mess.

He opened the door. There was a man in the main room, flipping through a book idly. He looked up at his arrival and smiled brightly.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Jaskier frowned, stepping in. The door closed with a thud.

“Do you want a room?” the man asked, standing up. “You’re just in luck; we have an open–” Jaskier rushed forward and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Okay, okay,” the man said, laughing awkwardly. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Jaskier tugged on his shirt, hard, before letting go and stepping back.

He glanced around but the mage was nowhere to be seen. He took a deep breath and looked at the man. Lifting his hands, he mimicked writing something on parchment.

“Ah,” the man said. “You want paper and quill?” he asked, and Jaskier nodded quickly. The man walked over and pulled open a drawer. Jaskier watched, with relief, as he pulled out a stack of parchment and a quill and ink.

He walked over and handed everything to Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled briefly in thanks before he dropped to his knees in front of the table. He placed the parchment down and dipped the quill, scribbling his question.

_The owner, where is she?_

The man stared at the words. “Oh, you mean the owner before me?” he said finally, smiling brightly. “Well, she retired, ma’am–said she needed to… uh–follow her passion, whatever that means.”

Jaskier closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Ma’am, you’re worrying me,” the man said, taking a step closer.

Jaskier stood up suddenly, knocking ink all over the floor. Turning around, he stormed out of the inn. He walked and walked with no real destination in mind. Townsfolk tried talking to him, mostly with concern, but he ignored all of them and just kept walking.

Eventually rain started to fall and most of the townsfolk disappeared into their homes or businesses. Jaskier walked until he reached the end of the town and crouched down, burying his face in his hands.

He sobbed, on his own, for what was easily an hour.

When he was finally done, it was simply because he had no more tears left in him. Jaskier stood on sore, shaky legs and walked into the woods.

Jaskier camped in the woods for weeks before he finally walked to a town, tired of the wilderness and cold and fish. It was bigger than the last, but no more impressive. He had no coins left, so he walked to the local tavern and played a few songs.

He got a few coins, but not nearly as much as he received while singing.

Frowning, he gathered the coins and shoved them in his bag before walking to the bar. He ordered a beer and waited, burying his face in his hands.

“My, my,” a voice, feminine and sharp, interrupted his own personal pity party.

Jaskier looked up and startled when he saw Yennefer, standing in front of him as pretty as ever in a dark dress, eyes darkened with charcoal and her curls cascading over her shoulders.

“What happened to you, little bard?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow as she sat.

Jaskier stared at her, speechless. He pointed at himself.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head curiously. “Oh, am I not supposed to recognize you?” Yennefer smiled, all sharp edges. “Sorry, you’d have to be a fool–or human–to not know.”

Jaskier thought of Geralt; he was a fool, all right. The bartender appeared with two beers and a flirty smile in Yennefer’s direction. She smiled back, all fake sugar.

“So,” Yennefer said, taking a sip and pulling a face. “Gross,” she mumbled, but she took another sip, anyway. “I’m assuming there’s a long story concerning your–” she raised both eyebrows “–transformation.”

Jaskier frowned and took a gulp of his beer.

“And not a pleasant one, I’m thinking,” she added knowingly.

Jaskier laughed, sharp and bitter.

“Well?” Yennefer prompted impatiently, staring at him.

Jaskier sighed heavily and touched his throat, staring back.

He hoped–prayed to whatever Gods existed–that she would understand, and Yennefer was many things. Dumb was not one of them. Pursing her lips, she reached over and pressed her fingers against his temple, closing her eyes and mumbling something under her breath.

Jaskier blinked once when she pulled her fingers away.

“Okay,” she said. “Try talking.”

Jaskier opened his mouth. Yennefer reached over, pressing a finger to his lips.

“ _Not_ with your mouth,” she said. “In your head.”

Jaskier nodded. _What the fuck did you do?_ he thought, and she grinned like a shark.

“Just a fun little spell,” she assured him. “So, tell me–what happened?”

He sighed again. _Why do you even want to know?_ he asked, glancing at her. _We’re not friends. It’s not like you care._

“Jaskier,” she said. “I never _hated_ you, you know that, right?” When he didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes. “I thought we had a thing going on,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “You made fun of me, I made fun of you. I didn’t know you thought… Gods, trust me, you would _know_ if I hated you.”

He smiled briefly, looking away.

“So,” she repeated, a little softer. “Tell me? Perhaps I can help.”

Jaskier nodded, licking his lips. He debated what to tell her–how _much_ he should tell her. He could just say he was cursed and be done with it, and perhaps she could even lift the curse for him. Yennefer was a talented mage, no arguing that.

“Hey,” she said, gently knocking the back of his head. “Just spit it out already.”

Jaskier sighed heavily. _Do you know what happened between me and Geralt on the mountain?_ he asked first, and she pursed her lips, nodding. _Great_ , he thought, only slight bitter, _that’ll make this easier. I was wandering around aimlessly for a while when I stumbled into a town and met this woman, an innkeeper._

“And let me guess,” she said, “ _she_ did this to you?”

Jaskier nodded, wringing his hands. _But with my permission,_ he added after a second. He pointedly did not look at Yennefer, not wanting to see her judgment. _I told her about…_ He hesitated, biting his tongue before deciding fuck it. _I told her about my feelings for Geralt and she got in my head, convincing me that if I was–if I was a woman, like you, like all the others, maybe Geralt would finally see me as something other than an annoying bard. In exchange, she took my voice. My passion, as she called it._

He stopped then and waited for Yennefer’s reply.

“Jaskier,” she said finally. He looked over at her, surprised by her perfectly cool, calm expression. “You’re an idiot.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, tight. _Wow, thanks._

“I’m serious,” she said sharply. “You didn’t actually do all this–” she gestured at him “–for Geralt, right?”

Jaskier flushed, looking away. _Okay, fine, I get it. You would never change yourself for a man._

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, a little softer. “I’m saying the least you could’ve done was ask Geralt first–see if maybe he felt the same way. Or if he didn’t… you could’ve known it was all for naught and avoided all this pain.”

Jaskier looked at her. _I know how he feels_.

Yennefer pursed her lips, raising her eyebrows high on her forehead. “Do you?”

_Yes,_ he replied quickly. _He’s made his feelings for me perfectly clear._

Yennefer hummed thoughtfully. “Jaskier, let me ask you one question,” she said and he looked at her, patient and waiting. “When has Geralt _ever_ been honest with himself?”

Jaskier stared at her. _You’re not seriously suggesting–_

“I’m not _suggesting_ anything,” she said primly. “I’m just saying why are you doing this to yourself when you don’t even know how he feels?”

Jaskier frowned, looking away. _It’s too late now, anyway,_ he thought. _I can’t find the woman–the mage–_ he cut himself off, looking at Yennefer with wide eyes. _Unless… you could break it?_

Yennefer eyed him skeptically. “I can try,” she said. “Come on.” She glanced around the tavern, a frown on her face. “We should… go.”

He followed her out of the tavern and she led him to the outskirts of town. Jaskier was just about to make a quip when she grabbed his arm and dragged him into the woods.

He stared at her. _What?_

She pointed through the trees at a group of men. Jaskier understood immediately.

_They were following us?_ he asked, just to be certain. She nodded and he frowned. _Why?“_ His frown deepened. _”What did you do, Yennefer?_

She frowned back at him. _“I_ didn’t do anything,” she hissed. “I’m starting to think your little friend–” she poked his throat “–is keeping an eye on you, probably to make sure you don’t go looking for a cure.”

Jaskier hated that he knew she was probably right. Silent, they both waited until the men walked away. Yennefer released his arm and sighed softly, turning around. “Follow me.”

She walked them deep into the woods and turned around.

“This might hurt,” she said, beckoning him closer. “Close your eyes.”

Jaskier nodded as he stepped closer before closing his eyes. Yennefer pressed a hand over his heart, humming.

“Do you remember anything about what she did?” she asked.

Jaskier frowned. _No, she just put her hand over my heart, like you, and the next thing I knew I was out. When I woke, I was in the middle of the moods and, well… I think you know the rest._

“ _Fuck_ ,” Yennefer whispered after a second, pulling her hand away. He opened his eyes. “She’s powerful, Jaskier. I–I don’t think I can help you, not in the way you want.”

Jaskier sighed, shoulders slumping.

“But…” she continued slowly. “I think I know someone who can, and so do you.”

Jaskier stared at her, absorbing the words. _No,_ he thought firmly. _No way._ He turned away. _I am not asking Geralt for help. I–I don’t even know where he is._

“He’d probably be able to help you track her down,” she said, walking around and stopping in front of him. He looked up at her, glaring daggers. “Don’t,” she said, lips pressed together. “I’m just trying to help. It’s not my fault if you’re too much of a coward–”

Jaskier stomped his foot, feeling childish and not caring. _Fine! You want me to break my own heart? I’ll do it. I’ll find him, tell him how I feel and watch as he, once again, shoves me away, discarding me like–_

“You’re already breaking your own heart!” she interrupted loudly.

Jaskier frowned, looking down.

“Just–at the very least, find him and ask for help,” she continued, a little gentler.

Jaskier stared at their feet.

“Okay,” she sighed softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, Jaskier.”

He nodded, silent. He heard a soft _whooshing_ and when he looked up she was gone.

Jaskier traveled from town to town for a few weeks. He wasn’t _searching_ for Geralt, not exactly, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he found him. And he did find him, tucked away in a tavern when he arrived in a new town and went in search of food.

Jaskier’s stomach lurched as he walked to the bar, ignoring him at first.

He ordered a beer and some food. The bartender stared at him like he was crazy while he gestured wildly before finally nodding and dropping a plate of food in front of him and a beer.

It wasn’t the food he’d wanted, but–good enough, he decided.

Eating slowly, he kept stealing glances at the Witcher at the back of the room.

Finally, Geralt looked up and met his eyes. Jaskier quickly looked away and finished his beer, gulping it, before he slammed the mug down on the bar. Sighing, he slid off the stool and walked to the back of the tavern, a tight smile on his face.

“So,” he drawled, “we meet again.”

Jaskier was prepared for once. He sat down and pulled parchment and a quill out of his bag. _I need to talk to you_ , he scribbled in ink, hands a little shaky. _Do you have a room here?_

Geralt raised his eyebrows but nodded. “Follow me,” he said plainly as he stood up, food unfinished, and walked to the door.

Jaskier frowned, confused, but stuffed his things back in his bag and followed. Geralt had a room at the local inn. He led him down the hall and opened the door, a repeat of last time. Jaskier’s skin prickled as he walked into the room and turned around.

He barely had a second before Geralt had him shoved up against one of the walls.

“Who are you?” he growled in his face. “And why are you following me?”

Jaskier stared into his eyes. He wished he could talk to him, explain everything. He tugged on the strap of his bag and Geralt frowned, taking a step back. He pulled out his sword, holding it.

“One wrong move,” he said slowly, “and I kill you, understand?”

Jaskier nodded quickly. He never doubted Geralt’s threats. He pulled out the parchment again and the quill, nodding at the bed. Geralt frowned but stepped out of the way, watching closely as Jaskier walked over to the bed and sat down, scribbling on the parchment.

_Geralt, I know you won’t believe me, but it’s me. Jaskier._

“What?” he replied gruffly. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier looked up slowly and smiled, tight around the edges. He looked back down. _The one and only,_ he confirmed with shaky handwriting.

“Wh–but we almost–” Geralt stumbled over his words. He placed his sword down and Jaskier didn’t miss the tight line of his shoulders. “Jaskier,” he said, looking up with a frown. “Was this some kind of sick joke?” he asked, scarily calm. “You, what–did all this and seduced me to make a fool of me?”

Jaskier blinked once. He scrambled across the bed, closer to him.

_No,_ he scribbled on the parchment, _Geralt, listen. That wasn’t my intention._

Geralt stared down at him with a blank expression. “Then, what _was_ your intention?” he asked.

This was it–the hard part. Jaskier gulped, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He sat back on the bed and pulled the parchment closer, taking a shaky breath. Geralt stepped closer, expression still carefully blank, and watched as he poured out his feelings on paper.

_I–I was traveling from town to town after… we parted ways,_ he started, biting the inside of his cheek, not daring to look at Geralt. _In one town, I stayed at an inn and met the innkeeper. I thought she was just a sweet, older lady but I was mistaken. She was a mage and after she learned of my feelings for you, she got this idea in my head–that if I did this–_ he gestured at himself between writing – _you would finally return them. She asked for my voice–my passion–as payment._

He stopped, dropping the quill, and waited for Geralt’s reply.

Minutes passed, and he looked up. Geralt was staring at him, an odd look on his face. He gulped again and picked up the quill, fingers even shakier, as he scribbled _what?_

“You said– _feelings_ for me,” Geralt replied, slow and quiet. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier’s stomach lurched painfully. His eyes stung with tears. He looked back down. _I mean,_ he wrote, _that I have feelings for you, Geralt, of the romantic variety._ He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

The last thing he expected to feel was Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up.

“And you thought… if you did _this_ –” he looked him up and down, frowning “–I would return them?”

Jaskier smiled ruefully, nodding. He knew better now, though. He knew Geralt would never want him, not really, not in the way he had always wanted Yennefer. Man or woman, he would never have Geralt–not every part of him, at least. Not the parts he wanted most.

“I–” Geralt paused, grunting thoughtfully. He circled the bed and Jaskier scooted over, making room. He sat, staring across the room at nothing. “Jaskier, do you know…” He paused again, taking a deep breath. “Do you know why I said what I said on the mountain?”

Jaskier frowned. He shrugged, answering truthfully.

“I know you probably thought I was just mad, and I was,” he admitted, frowning. “But it was more than that,” he continued, looking almost pained. “Jaskier, I–I care about you,” he said, the words coming a little fast, “more than I usually care about others and that… that terrified me.”

Jaskier reached out, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm, a silent comfort. His heart skipped a beat, thumping loudly with anticipation and hope–stupid, painful hope.

“I kept trying to push you away,” Geralt continued after a moment, “because I thought that was for the best, for both of us. You’re a human; it was only a matter of time before sticking around me got you killed.”

Jaskier looked down at his hand, resting on Geralt’s arm. He squeezed lightly.

“When I met Yennefer, I–I thought: this is it. If I’m going to have someone, this is what I need: a sorceress, strong and unyielding. She could take care of herself. But–” Geralt smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “She called things off for good, not long after we parted ways on the mountain.”

Jaskier blinked, surprised. Yennefer definitely hadn’t mentioned that, but then again she _had_ basically pushed him to tell Geralt of his feelings. He pulled his hand away from Geralt’s arm, immediately missing the warmth, and pulled the parchment closer.

_So?_ he wrote, simple and yet encompassing everything.

Geralt looked at him, a softness in his eyes he hadn’t seen before–not targeted at him, at least. He reached out, slow and almost nervous, cupping the side of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier held his breath, waiting.

“Do you know why I went with you that first night we met, when you were in this form?” he asked quietly.

Jaskier shook his head, never looking away from Geralt’s face.

“It was true–you reminded me of, well, yourself,” he said with a snort, “which is something I never thought I’d say, but you know what I mean.” He stroked the side of Jaskier’s throat with his thumb, hmming.

Jaskier took a shaky breath. He finally looked down, away, scribbling _Do I?_

“I don’t know,” Geralt said as he leaned forward, slow. Jaskier had never kissed with his eyes wide open before, but there was a first for everything. He was afraid if he blinked Geralt would be gone and he’d be alone, back in the woods, waking up from a dream. Geralt pulled back and smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. “ _Do_ you?”

Jaskier almost sobbed. He pushed the parchment and quill out of the way and lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s throat, tugging him close, their bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces, even in this form. Geralt buried his face in Jaskier’s shoulder, placing a hand on the small of his back.

“We’ll sleep,” he said. “Then in the morning I’ll help you find the mage.”

Jaskier nodded, and Geralt held him, quiet and patient, in his arms as he cried.

Jaskier rolled over and watched Geralt as he slept, the early morning sun shining in through the window. He smiled, biting the inside of his cheek, and leaned over, kissing the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

Because he could _do_ that now. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Geralt opened his eyes, smiling at him. “Hungry?” he asked, because of course the first thing on his mind when waking up was food. Jaskier smiled, nodding.

They walked, together, to the tavern. Jaskier smiled– _again_ , Gods, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much in one day–as Geralt opened the door for him.

He walked in and they secured a table near the back of the tavern, away from the early morning crowds. Geralt ordered a lot of food, enough for the both of them.

“So, this mage,” Geralt asked around a mouthful of meat. “Got a description?”

Jaskier dug around in his bag and pulled his things out–parchment, quill, ink. He scribbled down a description. Once he was finished, he slid the parchment across the table and Geralt read it.

“You mention her changing appearances,” he said. “That’ll make tracking her down harder.”

Jaskier sighed, nodding, as he took a sip of his water. Geralt obviously thought there was no such thing as too early for beer. Jaskier thought differently.

“But we’ll find her,” he said after a moment. “No matter what it takes.”

Jaskier smiled softly, believing him. He trusted Geralt, almost worryingly so.

They traveled together for weeks in search of her. Occasionally, they’d stop by a town and stay for a few days. Geralt would grab a few jobs, earning them coins for their travels, and Jaskier would play his lute in the local taverns. He still didn’t earn nearly as much without his tales of the White Wolf, but he still liked contributing, even if it wasn’t much.

Finally, they got a lead from a man about a sorceress–a nasty older lady–who’d been terrorizing the local townsfolk of a nearby town.

“I don’t really care what she does,” he’d said, taking a gulp of beer, “as long as she stays out of our town.”

Geralt had frowned, obviously displeased, but Jaskier had intervened. He’d grabbed Geralt’s arm and tugged, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. He didn’t care about anything but finding her and getting the curse lifted.

With a sigh, Geralt had nodded and walked away with Jaskier.

The nearby town was just a few hours away and they made the trip in one day. Roach was obviously unhappy with it, but Geralt promised her enough treats she’d never complain again and Jaskier just watched, amused.

When Geralt turned away from her, after tying her up, Jaskier just grinned at him.

“What?” he asked gruffly but the corners of his mouth were quirking up.

Jaskier just shook his head and they both walked to the local inn, pausing at the door. Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder, pushing him back a few steps. He frowned, but stayed.

Geralt pulled his sword out, holding the hilt between tight fingers, as he opened the door. He rushed in and Jaskier followed, lingering a few steps behind, mostly so he would be out of the way.

Jaskier looked around and gasped when he saw her standing there, back in her misleading form of a little old lady.

She frowned, deep, and within seconds she was herself again, young and sharply pretty. “And what, pray tell, do I owe this pleasure?” she asked, glancing at Geralt with a smirk. “You don’t plan to stab me with that rusty ol’ thing, do you?”

Geralt growled, stepping forward, and Jaskier rushed in front of him, hands in the air. Geralt stared at him, face tight with anger, before nodding, lowering his sword.

Jaskier sighed as he turned around, facing the mage with a hardened expression. He saw her and, now, all he could feel was pure anger, eating him up.

“ _Fix_ him,” Geralt said. “And we won’t kill you.”

“ _We?_ ” she parroted, amused. “You mean _you_ , right?” She looked at Jaskier, smiling. “This little thing couldn’t kill a fly.”

Geralt growled again, low in his throat, and stepped forward. Jaskier didn’t stop him. “ _We_ are a team now,” he said, low and even. “Fix him,” he repeated, “or see if you can survive the wrath of a Witcher.” He smiled, cruelly. “I hear we can be quite vicious.”

Jaskier stared at her, unwavering. She laughed suddenly, doubling over with it. Jaskier frowned, glancing at Geralt, who just gripped his sword tighter.

“I am not scared of a Witcher,” she said once she was finished, wiping her eyes. “But that _was_ a very romantic speech, I’ll admit.”

Jaskier watched as she disappeared, reappearing in front of Geralt and sending him flying back with a burst of magic. He went through the wall of the inn, landing in the roads, and Jaskier glared at her, pulling his daggers from his bag. She smiled sweetly.

“Oh, darling,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Do you _really_ think even if you landed a hit those little things would do any damage?”

Jaskier shrugged, smiling sharply. She narrowed her eyes and lunged at him.

She slammed him to the floor, holding him down with inhuman strength, fingers wrapped around his throat. Jaskier wasn’t scared–he knew Geralt would save him and he did, seconds later, knocking her off him with a kick to her side. She went flying, slamming into a table that shattered underneath her.

She was back on her feet in seconds. Jaskier smiled at her darkly, staring at her stomach. She frowned and looked down at the wound in her stomach; a slash from his daggers. She laughed, almost hysterical, as she looked back up.

“You really think–” she cut herself off with a groan, covering the wound with one of her hands. She took a step forward, staggering. “I–I don’t understand,” she gasped, dropping to her knees.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s wrist, holding one of the daggers up. “Poison–strong enough to kill three Witchers,” he said with a smirk. He released Jaskier’s hand and stepped forward, kneeling in front of her on the floor. “We win.”

She growled, reaching out with her claws, but he jumped back, too fast.

“Fuck you!” she screamed, and Jaskier winced, covering his ears. “Fuck–”

She fell to the floor in a heap. Geralt nudged her with his foot. She was limp.

“Jaskier, she’s–” he started, turning but Jaskier was on the floor, writhing in pain. He crouched down, touching his leg. “Jaskier,” he breathed. “It’s okay–it should be breaking. You’ll be okay.”

Jaskier groaned, tossing his head back. Geralt gathered him up in his arms and ran out of the inn. He distantly heard screams as he carried him into the woods. He found them a safe spot, a nice clearing, and pulled out the blanket he always carried with him.

“It’s okay, shh,” Geralt comforted, placing him gently on the ground.

Jaskier grabbed his arm, squeezing. “Ger–hurts,” he gasped.

“I know,” he replied, brushing sweat-slick hair out of his face. “Just rest.”

When Jaskier opened his eyes, it was morning. He stared up at the clear, blue sky and coughed, sitting up. Geralt was sleeping on the blanket beside him, an arm thrown casually over his waist.

Jaskier smiled, small, and reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Geralt groaned, opening his eyes. He quickly sat up. “Jaskier,” he breathed. “You’re–well, _you_ again,” he said and there was no denying the relief in his voice, warming every inch of Jaskier’s body.

Geralt wanted _him_.

“Thank you,” he whispered, squeezing his hand. “For helping me.”

Geralt smiled, soft and sincere, and it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Jaskier would go on to write many songs about his smile and they would all be hits. “I’m sorry,” he replied, and Jaskier blinked, surprised. “For turning you away on the mountain and–” he sniffed, squeezing his hand back “–everything else.”

“It’s okay,” he decided, meaning it. “Things will be better now.”

Geralt nodded. “Things will be better now,” he confirmed.


End file.
